


The Solution of John

by Lumelle



Series: Questions and Answers [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Asexual!Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 04:51:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumelle/pseuds/Lumelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is in pain and there isn't much Sherlock can do to help. However, what he can do is figure out his confused feelings so at least they won't get in the way of caring for John. Fortunately, John isn't too reluctant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Solution of John

**Author's Note:**

> Because the first fic was written pre-Reichenbach, this one ignores it as well.

John is in pain.

Of course, this fact falls under what Lestrade would likely like to call "bloody obvious". It is not exactly an observation worthy of Sherlock's genius, nor a conclusion that would require much effort on his part to arrive at. However, it is not the fact that bothers him as much as the striking reality of it, so sharp in his eyes.

John has been out of hospital for a few days now, unwilling to stay there any longer than absolutely necessary. Sherlock can hardly fault him. Few places can be as dull and uninteresting as hospitals. However, in this case John's otherwise quite sensible decision means that Sherlock is the only one around to witness his relentless pain.

John still can't walk more than a few steps at a time. Though there were no actual injuries to his lower body, nothing aside from bruises and some minor wounds that he should be able to brush aside, the psychosomatic symptoms are bad enough his leg simply cannot seem to bear his weight. On an intellectual level Sherlock wonders what happened, what could have torn through John's nerves of steel badly enough to render him to this wreck of a man, worse even than he was before, worse than he was the first day he stood in 221B. On another level, one he still has trouble recognising or even acknowledging to a full extent, he decides it is probably for the best for him not to know. The men responsible for hurting John are all locked away now, the ones who survived his wrath anyway. Mycroft would not much appreciate it if he went after them now.

They will pay, of course, Mycroft has promised him as much. Mycroft has made many promises lately, promises and offers so outrageous that even from Mycroft they make him wonder, really now Sherlock won't you get some sleep I will pay you any sum you name if you'll just close your eyes. He doesn't understand, of course, doesn't understand how the slightest sound from John shakes him to a state of alarm, how the smallest movement awakens his fear that someone has arrived to take John away again. Mycroft cannot possibly understand when Sherlock himself is in the dark, still unable to make sense of his feelings beyond the fact that John is important, more important than anyone else.

He sits in John's room sometimes, long after his friend has fled the world of waking, senses focused on observing, cataloguing every sign of possible distress. John's dreams are often restless, wrought with nightmares and past terrors, and once or twice Sherlock finds himself reaching out a hand to grasp one of John's, mindful of the broken arm. It calms John down, just a little, though Sherlock cannot comprehend why; it makes no sense for such a simple contact to break through all that trauma and anguish. As long as it helps, though, he is willing to do even such an irrational thing, just as he is willing to sit still and observe as though the one sleeping man were the most intriguing case he has ever come across. As long as it helps John.

There isn't much he can do anyway, is there, just like he could not do much for John while he was abducted. It went on for far too long and Sherlock blames himself, blames his own weaknesses and inability to function, and even if he was not the one who starved and beat John he still hates himself every time John cries out in his sleep.

It's John's fault, too, of course, John's fault for being so mad and brave and brilliant in ways that Sherlock never thought possible for normal people. John's fault for breaking through all of Sherlock's defences and discovering the heart Sherlock himself had long since declared a lost cause. It's John's fault for being so important, so precious, for being a weakness for Sherlock's opponents to exploit.

John wakes, sometimes, shaken from his slumber by the pain or the horrific images, eyes darting wildly in the darkness before settling on Sherlock. He never asks anything, though, never questions Sherlock's presence, just like he never says anything when Sherlock makes them tea precisely as John likes it or when Sherlock is the one to insist that they eat something. There is a question in his eyes, though, a wonder he will not voice, and Sherlock knows he will have to answer it sooner or later but first he has to clear it up for himself.

It's not in the middle of the night that they finally break through the silence, though, not amid a night terror and unbearable pain. The breaking point comes one grey afternoon, as a light drizzle covers the windows and John has fought his way to the living room quietly massaging his thigh as though hoping to ease pain that is the product of his mind. Sherlock sits on the couch, eyes trained on John, fingers steepled in thought.

"Sherlock?" John's voice is rough but familiar, soothing to the nerves that feared never hearing it again. "What exactly is going on with you?"

"Hm?" Sherlock blinks. "Going on with me? Far as I know, nothing but a particularly dull afternoon without a case."

"Exactly." John shifts and then winces in pain. Sherlock can barely suppress a flinch of his own. "It's been ages since you had a case. I'd have expected you to run up a wall by now. Instead, you sit there watching me like you're expecting me to start walking on my hands."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. You can barely walk on your feet, yet." Sherlock pauses, then shakes his head. "Not all mysteries are crimes."

"So I'm the skull once again." He doesn't sound too upset. "What is your mystery this time?"

"You." As John blinks in surprise, Sherlock sighs. "Me. You and me and everything that goes with it."

"I was not aware there was anything mysterious about me." John looks puzzled. "You, sure, but I was under the impression you knew me thoroughly already."

"Yes, well, then you had to go and disappear on me." Sherlock closes his eyes, a frown on his face. The memory is painful. It is hard to comprehend why. He is trying, though.

"One might remember I was not the one to arrange that." John's voice is weary, his hand trembling upon the arm of the chair. Sherlock had almost managed to forget about that, about the shaking hand that used to ail him, but now it's back. Those men will never pay enough.

"No! No, that is not what I meant." He feels frustrated. John is supposed to be the one who is good at these things. "It distressed me, John. I could barely function." It is not an easy thing to admit, but he figures it is a necessary one nevertheless.

"You're confused because you were distressed over a missing friend?" John's brow furrows. "Gee, sorry for inspiring human emotion in you." Is he offended? He sounds offended. Why would he be offended?

"I am aware that is the standard reaction, John. However, I am not used to being so suspectible to emotions." Sherlock pauses, gathering himself. "It is because of you. Just you. I felt like I was unable to focus, unable to think, and all because you were in danger."

"It's normal, Sherlock. We are all just human in the end, even you." John shakes his head. "Take it from me, even people who kill other people for a living can get out of sorts when their most important people are in danger."

"But I don't. I never have." Sherlock shakes his head, the gesture quite useless in clearing his mind. "And I'm starting to think it's because I've never had someone so dear to me before."

"Sherlock?" John sounds more puzzled than anything, now. "Are you sick or something?"

"Oh, no. I'll admit all this has left me in quite the difficult state, but I am nevertheless confident I have come to the correct conclusion." Sherlock draws a deep breath. However certain he is of his logic, it still isn't easy to say. When he does manage to get the words out, he cannot avoid a tone of slight amazement. "I think I love you, John."

"Oh." John looks, for the lack of a better word, stunned. "Ah, Sherlock, I — I have to say I'm flattered, really I am, but I'm not actually —"

"You're not actually gay. Yes, John, I am not blind." Sherlock rolls his eyes. John can occasionally be brilliant, but right now he reminds Sherlock of just how painfully normal he can be at times. "Good thing neither am I, isn't it?"

"Huh?" John blinks. "But — I thought —"

"You thought that since I don't care for women, I must prefer men. Wrong. I feel no particular draw toward either sex, gender, or gender presentation. I feel quite indifferent to them all, so you can put your mind at ease. There is no chance that I would ever have any sexual feelings toward you or anyone else."

"But you said…"

"John, John, John. How simple your world must be." Sherlock runs a hand through his hair, feeling quite exasperated. "I said I love you, not that I have any interest in carnal relations with you. Honestly. While I can comprehend that you are driven largely by the demands of your hormones, surely you are not going to tell me that love and lust are one and the same?"

"Of course not, but I —" John pauses, then lets out a weak laugh. "Forget it. Should have known the great Sherlock Holmes cannot even fall in love the normal way." Well. At least he doesn't seem too disapproving.

"Why should I? It seems like quite the dull process." Sherlock allows his lips to curl into a small smile. "You have yet to threaten me, either with bodily harm or the removal of your presence from my life. Should I consider this promising?"

John sighs, but it is the good kind of sigh where he isn't actually mad at Sherlock. "All this time, people have been telling us we are a couple," he murmurs, his tone almost amused. "Should have known better than to presume I could get to be right for once."

"John?" Was there something he had missed?

"Sherlock, I have at last count been dumped by five women for being supposedly in love with you. Well, maybe six; there was the messy thing with Deanna where I was never quite clear on the reason. Either way, I probably should have listened sooner."

Sherlock is filled with a feeling of deep, immense relief as the tension he hadn't even been aware of leaves him. "Just don't get kidnapped again, please. I do not fare well without my blogger at all."

"Of course not." John's lips twitch. "So how long until we can expect a congratulatory visit from Mycroft?"

"Tomorrow evening, I would imagine. He will first wish to make sure he has enough info on you to suitably threaten you about the consequences should you ever dare break my heart, or some such idiocy."

"You two really are so very charming, aren't you?" John shifts and then freezes. In pain, no doubt.

"I am sorry, John." Rare words from him, but true nevertheless. "Not about Mycroft, that is. I'm sorry that you came to pain because I could not locate you sooner."

"Sherlock Holmes apologising because his track record isn't quite perfect." John shakes his head. "Could I get this in writing? I might think my pained mind has started to hallucinate."

"You are well aware I have apologised to people before." He feels almost miffed at that. "And I would hope I have proved to you by now that I do not wish any unnecessary pain on you."

"I know. But, you know, I don't blame you, Sherlock. You weren't the one who snatched me, and in the end you were the one who got me out." John looks at him, honest and sincere and warm and John, and Sherlock's chest feels tighter than it should be by all means. "Thank you."

"You can thank me when we have you back in proper shape again," he says, because this isn't the real John, this broken and weak husk is not the man he knows John to be, and together they can fight all of this off, he knows they can. It won't be easy, not when he still needs help just to cross the room, but Sherlock is determined to have John running by his side after criminals again, his John, and Sherlock always gets what he wants, after all.

"Of course," John says, and the chuckle is genuine, the amusement and fondness in his voice straight from the heart. He has a big heart, John, bigger than Sherlock could have imagined, big enough for two.

His hand on the arm of the chair isn't shaking, Sherlock notices.

It's not much, but it's a start.


End file.
